


Leadership

by RenaRoo



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andersmith is the leader of his squad. He thinks. Leadership is hard enough in these difficult times, but he hopes that believing in his squadmates will be enough. [Takes place between Seasons 12 and 13]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leadership

**Author's Note:**

> First published RvB fic. That’s exciting and horrifying!

"You called for me, Sir?”

The rumble of moving vehicles and the synchronized boot steps outside filled the air, but if there was anything to be said about him, it was that John never worried about his voice carrying. 

General Kimball’s war room was, like most of the amenities of the New Republic, small but serviceable. It probably wouldn’t have stuck out so much to Andersmith if they hadn’t just returned from Armonia and seen the Federal Army’s own conditions. 

For a moment, John allowed himself to swell with some pride at how much their rebellion was able to stand in this extended conflict with so much less than their opposition.

Their opposition who was supposed to be their allies now. Their enemies who they were moving into the barrack’s of now. 

Kimball stared into the screening wall, the blue glow enveloping her visor and armor, orders and communications continuing to stack and build windows upon one another. There was a lot of work to be done. 

“Lieutenant,” she addressed, turning to face him. She was a tall, intimidating woman. It was hard to remember that she was younger than several other commanding officers in their forces. “Please, come on in.” Then, as he takes a few steps, “Close the door.”

“Yessir,” he responds as he follows orders and approaches, standing in attention before his leader. 

“At ease, Lieutenant.”

John breathed easier. Kimball made a soft noise from behind her helmet, maybe a laugh. 

“Have you spoken with your... C.O. recently, Andersmith?” she asked, a little warily. 

“I report into Captain Caboose regularly, Sir,” he replies in cheer. “He and the Reds and Blues are secured in Armonia and recovering. He was very clear about his hopes for our future objectives and reunion. And punch fountains.”

Kimball let out a grunt. “Yes, I’m aware of Captain Caboose’s proposal for punch fountains.”

“Very useful for morale,” Andersmith pressed.

“It’s up for discussion at another time,” she assured him. “My reason for calling you here was to ask you how your field mission with your squad went. Your appointment as field leader was not made arbitrarily, but I do need to know how your team worked under your command. Truthfully.”

Andersmith thought to the attack on Armonia, to their small squad’s participation in that fatal conflict. How they _survived_ while so many others fell around them. 

“We performed better than ever before, General.”

“That’s good to hear, Andersmith,” Kimball said. “Because I’m planning on making your appointment more permanent.”

John blinked behind his visor. “... My appointment?”

“Can you continue to command your squadmates as we transition to Armonia, Lieutenant?”

Swallowing, Andersmith saluted. “I will rise to this grand honor, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

* * *

John’s head is still swimming, still processing, when he comes upon the thinning garage. Despite all the bustle around the various vehicles and equipment as other soldiers continue to work toward their move, John  sees his three squadmates have not moved past the jeep he left them at. 

As he nears, John can hear their conversation more clearly. 

“I’m _the driver,_ Jensen. I drive the vehicles. It’s pretty much the only thing Gold Team does. You fix things. Stick to what you’re good at,” Bitters snarls over the radio.

Sitting in the back on the empty boxes they should have filled during Andersmith’s visit with Kimball, Palomo turns to look curiously at their orange branded teammate. “Wait, Bitters. Aren’t you _Orange_ team?”

“Shut the fuck up, Palomo.”

“I’m just saying, we shouldn’t confuse our team names. What if we get confused in the field.”

“The only one confused is _Bitters!_ Because Yellow Team sucks, and I _made_ the jeep so I get to drive it!” Jensen garbles across the radio, her tiny frame doing its best to square off with Bitters despite being far smaller. 

Palomo, distracted from Bitters’ comments, coughs as his focus moves to Jensen. Parts of Jensen. 

Bitters, without even looking to their aqua squadmate, shoves Palomo’s helmet, knocking him off the jeep. “OWIE!” 

“Red team sucks, Jensen. Gold team sucks. We all _suck_ , did you miss that?” Bitters growls. 

“Hey!” 

All jumping slightly, the three lieutenants turned. Andersmith, having had enough of the banal conversation, continued nearing the small squad, helmet under his arm. His eyes narrowed. 

“Helmets off,” he ordered. 

The three looked at him, confused. Palomo reached for his latches only for Bitters to raise his hand, pausing him. Bitters cocked his head. “Why?”

“Because your squad leader told you to, Bitters,” John responded crisply. “Do it. Now.”

“Squad leader?” Jensen asked. She gasped, a bubbly noise over the radio. “I-is that what Kimball wanted you for? You’re our leader now?”

“Oh. I thought he already was.”

“Shut up, Palomo.”

“Helmets,” Andersmith reiterated. 

Slowly, the three complied, out of synch, some more hesitant in the unlatching of their field equipment than others. They looked at each other, a little unsure, then back to Andersmith. 

After a moment, letting everyone breathe, John nods to his brothers and sister in arms. 

“There is no Red or Green or Blue or Orange Team here,” he reminded them. “ _We’re_ the team now. We’re the best, and everyone needs to be responsible for their own strengths and weaknesses. And as a team, we have to support and trust that each other knows what’s best.” He looked to Jensen. “Katie?”

“Yessir?” she slurred over her braces. 

“Are you the best choice for driving the jeep?”

Taking a breath before smirking, she pointed her thumb at her chestplate. “Yessir, I am. I know her inside and out.”

“Um... am I the only one that heard that?”

“Shut up, Palomo.”

“Okay then, Jensen,” Andersmith responded in kind, “I trust you.”

“Yessir!” she replied emphatically, racing past their squad to the driver’s seat. 

Andersmith felt himself swell with pride. Or ego one.

Bitters looked utterly deflated. “You... You _can’t_ be serious, Andersmith. It’s _Jensen._ Her C.O. _ordered_ her to stay away from the vehicles. She’s _the worst driver. Of all time.”_

“Shame on you, Bitters,” John responded, frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “Have a little faith in your squad.”

“I have faith!” Palomo announced, just as the engine revved and the jeep skidded into the wall, right into a workbench. “And now I don’t!”

“Sorry!” Jensen cried over the sound of other soldiers cursing and screaming. 

Bitters glared at Andersmith flatly before shaking his head, roughly throwing his helmet back on. 

John rubbed his face. He had a lot to work on. 

* * *

“You’ve got to be _fucking kidding me!”_ the voice carried through the barrack halls. “PALOMO!”

The barracks on the western half of the city were theirs, but John felt far from comfortable with the winding halls and open space between the quarters.

A side effect of years spent in winding caves and barely lit corridors, perhaps.

He turned toward the weapon’s room -- all practice rifles and training mats now that arms are deposited in a central location under the Reds and Blues’ supervision, can’t have the Republic with more access than the Federal, or vice versa -- and saw Palomo, shoulders curled so far in that he’s even smaller in his armor than usual. 

Not far from the Lieutenant was Captain Tucker in his garish aqua armor, eyes bright with fury as he tossed his helmet toward to opposite wall. 

“Be careful, Sir. Stitches,” Palomo uttered weakly. 

Tucker stood in the center of the room, head lowered. He was shaking with anger. 

Andersmith swallowed, stepping into the room. “Is there something wrong, Sir?” he spoke up. 

When the captain didn’t make a move, John looked to his squadmate, confusion clear across his face. Palomo was reserved, face struggling not to crumble under the tension. 

“I turned in the remaining arms, as ordered,” Palomo explained, not bothering to add that it was Andersmith who had made the order to begin with. They both knew the circumstances. “I... I must’ve turned in Captain Tucker’s rifle--”

 _“Goddammit,”_ Tucker seethed.

“It should be easily retrieved, Sir,” John attempted to reason.

“If it wasn’t _destroyed_ , yeah I guess it fucking would be,” Tucker hissed. “But Palomo put it into the _incinerator_ pile like a fucking _dumbass_ \--” 

“Sir, it had alien writing on it!” Palomo cried out in defense.

“ _No fucking duh!”_ Tucker snapped. “I have had that gun since before we wrecked on this planet. _My son_ decorated that rifle. _Goddammit, Palomo._ Are you going to throw my wallet away next? I don’t even get to see my son, _that gun was one of the only things I have left of him_ \--”

“The incinerator doesn’t run every day, Captain,” Andersmith called. “Lieutenant Palomo and I will go to check for it immediately. We might be fortunate today.”

Eyes still narrowed and lips in a snarl, Tucker stared at Andersmith with barely checked rage. He breathed. “Hurry.”

Immediately, the two Lieutenants raced to the hall and toward the exits.

“John -- uh, I mean, Andersmith --” Palomo coughed out as they race toward the city square. “Are you just making this up or?”

“We just have to hope that we can catch Captain Tucker’s weapon before it gets incinerated,” John replied quickly. “... but yes. I was mostly hoping to stop the yelling.”

“Ohmanohman,” Palomo muttered, his pace quickening. “I... I can’t... Why do I suck so much? I just. I feel so bad. Why can’t I stop messing up?”

“You didn’t know,” Andersmith answered as they raced into the garbage lot. As the soldiers on duty shouted, Andersmith looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Military business!” They enter the broken weapon’s room, shocking the men on duty. “Please halt!”

The two men looked at each other and then back to the out of breath rebels. “Uh. No.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“We have a quota, man.”

Andersmith grunted, hands on his hips more to catch his breath than anything else. “Will it mess with your quota for us to root through these piles of equipment for something? It’s for Captain Tucker.”

The men jolted. “Captain Tucker?” “The Reds and Blues?” “Yeah, man go for it.”

“Thank you,” John replied before grabbing Palomo’s heaving shoulder and pulling him toward the piles. “Let’s look quick, Palomo, and let these men get back to their business.”

“Y-yeah, okay,” Palomo responded, shaken, but immediately he dug in. John joined him.

Their search was relentless, and quiet until the second pile. Palomo increasingly was more frantic. 

“I... I can’t believe his son gave it to him, oh my god I’m so stupid,” Palomo muttered under his breath. It wasn’t meant for any ears, but Andersmith heard it all the same. 

John stood up, frowning. “Charles.”

Palomo fidgeted before looking sorrowfully at Andersmith. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Andersmith promised. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I feel so bad,” Palomo pressed earnestly. He uncomfortably wrung his hands. “... I just. Captain Tucker never talks to me about his son. But still. I know how much it means to him. And it’s like. It’s like I took away something that important and-and--” 

Andersmith was quiet, looking up only when it’s glaringly obvious that Palomo was incapable of going on. He’s met with a very frightened child’s eyes looking back at him. 

Both of them should be starting college soon. Instead, they’re quieted by the overwhelming remorse of knowing all too well how important family is to keep on hand. Chorus has left many orphans. 

Stopping, Andersmith rubbed his own helmet roughly. “Palomo... I don’t think Captain Tucker is... going to be... I don’t know if he’s looking at his position as a... fatherly position. He’s your C.O. You’re a soldier.”

“I still don’t want to disappoint him,” Palomo whispered. “Again.”

Andersmith looked beneath his foot, feeling a cool sense of relief. He scooped up the firearm beneath him and held it out to Palomo. 

“It’s broken but... I don’t think that’s the important part of this particular weapon.”

Palomo released a small, squeaking noise, and yanked the weapon into a tight hug. “Oh thank you thank you thank you.” His dark eyes shined with relief. “Thank you.”

“He might be angry about the condition,” Andersmith reminded him gently.

“Well, it wouldn’t be Captain Tucker if he wasn’t,” Palomo chuckled, shouldering the rifle. 

* * *

The Federal Major had exploded on the Lieutenants. Part of it was deserved, they had purposefully chosen their time in the mess hall because it was a time when the Feds were most numerous. Part of it was because he was a _Fed_ and they were _News_ and he needed an excuse to bite into them. 

Andersmith took it, straight faced and angry. He even accepted when the reprimand had to be delivered by Kimball herself, though her passion behind it was almost nonexistent. 

It still stung. It was still an angry wound to his very diminished pride. 

He needed to crawl into his bunk and wait for the day to end, but he had been all but ordered to report with his squad and reiterate the disappointment and the punishments that awaited them with Agent Washington’s training the following morning. 

And there was a small, growing part of John that _really_ needed to dig into Antoine Bitters for mouthing off to the Federal Commanders that were in the mess hall to begin with. It didn’t matter that Captain Grif taught Orange Team to never accept “no” for seconds, _it wasn’t their mess hall anymore.  
_

But, as he came to the road leading west, Andersmith filled with dread. He was met with a sea of white and striped Federal armor... which meant that it was _very_ dangerous for the three tan soldiers at its center.

“Oh, no,” John whispered.

“We’re sick and tired of you tan fuckers.” “You said to meet you out in the parking lot, well here we are, assholes.” “You had some colorful things to say about my mother, fuckface, wanna repeat it to my face?”

Bitters, being inches taller than Palomo and Jensen, stuck out like a large orange thumb in the madness. But he didn’t seem deterred. 

“You guys want a nice chat, we can have a nice chat,” Bitters hissed in return. 

Andersmith tightly screwed his eyes shut, cursing under his breath, before beginning to move forward. It wouldn’t be the first hit he took for Bitters that day, when suddenly a pop went off loud enough to make the soldiers all flinch.

Jensen and Palomo stood between Bitters and the Federal soldiers, her hand on a napkin dispenser... that was smoking.

“EVERYBODY BACK OFF!” Jensen’s watery voice screeched over intercom. Palomo’s “Ow” barely making an impact in the midst of everyone’s shock. 

All stared at the tiny Lieutenant.

“Um.” a Fed finally spoke up. “That’s... a napkin dispenser.”

“And _I’m_ a genius mechanic!” she hackled in response. “Are you ready to see what happens when I throw this sucker right in the middle of your ugly white butts!?”

Andersmith’s eyebrows raised high, waiting back expectantly. The Federal soldiers seemed to be just as stunned... until Katie arched back, calling out “READY.... SET”

The soldiers took off in a flurry, screams of insults hardly heard over the heavy boots. 

The four New Republic Lieutenants stood, quietly stunned. 

“Oh my god,” Palomo decried after a moment. “That _worked?”_

“What the hell was that, Jensen?” Bitters demanded, still visibly shocked. 

“Just a sparkplug and some crosswires,” Jensen responded, shaking the dispenser. “Oh. And a napkin dispenser.”

Impressed, Andersmith approached. “Is... everyone alright?”

“Andersmith!” the three jerked around, facing him. 

“Oh my god that was amazing! Andersmith, you should have seen it! Did you see it? It was awesome. Suck it, Fed Scum!” Palomo blabbered, arms waving excitedly. 

Jensen was still chuckling only for it to aggravate her into hacking, turning from her comrades. Her breathing was far too fast for her asthma to deal with.

Bitters merely stood his ground, looking uncharacteristically winded by the events. His sharp eyes were focused on Andersmith before taking a breath. 

“You... uh.... _you_ okay, Andersmith?” Bitters asked. 

Blinking, Andersmith tilted his head. “Uh. Yes, Bitters. Kimball wasn’t happy.... but we’ve all seen her less happy. I’m sure, behind the Federal Army’s back, she finds this situation rather humorous.” He frowned. “We’ll have laps in the morning. Among other additional training. We’ll need a good night’s sleep for it all.”

“Yeah... sounds about right,” Bitters responded lowly. “Uh...sorry you got yelled at, man. We wouldn’t have--”

“Yes, _we_ would have,” Andersmith responded lightly, clapping a hand on Bitters’ shoulder. “But thanks all the same.”

“Aw.”

“Shut the fuck up, Palomo.”

* * *

Humming was supposedly a low enough noise that the radio of their helmets wasn’t supposed to pick up on it, but as with most things, Captain Caboose liked testing these rules. He was on one of the western facing walls of Armonia, his assault rifle resting easily in his arms. 

There was something comforting about the lack of rigidity in Caboose’s pose, Andersmith thought.

“Approaching body. East bound. Targeting.”

But perhaps not. 

Andersmith raised his arms carefully and stopped approaching his C.O. “It’s Lieutenant Andersmith, Sir,” he called out as the spooked Captain turned on his heels and aimed toward the sky. 

“What what-- Oh! Smith!” Caboose called out, lowering his gun. “It’s okay, Freckles. It’s Smith. Yup. Just Smith.”

“No unfriendly targets sited.”

Caboose smiled brightly, visible even past the bright visor. “Hello!”

Andersmith lowered his arms, smiling in kind. “Hello, Sir.”

“Are you wanting to be standing here, Smith?”

“I was hoping to get some advice actually, Sir,” John explained. He noticed the uncomfortable jerk his captain gave and was quick to step up next to him. “But we can talk about it here if you want.”

“Oh, okay good. I’m not supposed to go backwards,” Caboose said. “That’s why I’m up here. There’s only one stairs.”

Looking over his shoulder, Andersmith surveyed the wall. “Could you use the lift?”

Sputtering, Caboose turned to the Lieutenant, looking utterly aghast. “Smith! You. Are. Amazing! You’re going to be General someday!”

“I hope not, Sir,” John admitted wearily. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You’ve always been so inspiring and insightful for me, Sir... but I don’t know how to be the same for my squad. I want to guide them... but it seems like every time I do, it goes wrong.”

“Oh, yeah. That’ll happen,” Caboose hummed. 

“So what am I supposed to do, Sir?” he asked. “I feel like everyone is doing better... but it’s not because of anything to do with me.”

“Well, when I lead things, I usually just end up following. Or asking what I should do. Usually everyone has better ideas about it than I do.”

Andersmith tilted his head. “So leading is just about letting people do what they’re the best at already?”

“Yeah. Or sometimes blowing things up for them,” Caboose said, tapping the chin of his helmet. “Or blowing things up they didn’t want exploded. And saying Tucker did it.”

“So... I should encourage my squad to do what they do best... but also know enough about them to keep them from things they’re not best at when they take off more than they can chew.” Andersmith sighed. “That’s a lot to mess up.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot to mess up in life,” Caboose nodded. “You get used to it. Or you don’t.”

“Yeah. That’s true,” John replied. “Thank you, Sir.”

* * *

Feeling -- not relieved, but prepared for what he needed to do -- Andersmith walked into the barrack, the usual level of noise meeting his ears.

Everyone was out of armor and at their usual spots -- Katie at the desk tinkering, Bitters kicking back on his bunk reading through tattered comics, Palomo sitting backwards on a chair between the two of them chattering away -- and it was comforting. Surprisingly so. 

They all looked up as he entered. 

“Andersmith!” Jensen grinned ear to ear, shoving her screwdriver into her stubby ponytail. “I think I know how to fix the warthog!”

“Does it involve you not being allowed to drive it?” Palomo asked so earnestly it _almost_ didn’t earn him the kick Bitters used to turn over his chair. 

Bitters looked lazily over to him. 

“Still sore from extra laps, Boss, don’t feel like doing much,” Bitters said.

The sound of _Boss_ hung pretty heavily in the air, but John continued on in undeterred, meticulously removing his armor plating as Palomo pulled himself off the floor. “That soreness is merely experience,” Andersmith announced to his crew. “And as long as I’m in charge, I’m going to see to it that we’re all going to be very very sore from long lives.”

The three looked at him, Palomo frowning. “That sounds harsh.”

“Yeah some of us have asthma.”

“And some of us think that mindset’s bullshit,” Bitters responded, smirking. 

John looked at his friends, grinning. “Tough. It’s the way things are going to be.”


End file.
